A Rose for My Warrior Mother

That august sun was sitting on the horizon

Showing off the auburn sky that it had painted

Illuminating the horror of that last august day

The popping guns and the cries of their preys,

Wailing, crying, screaming – terrors reign the air

Amidst them lay still my body in the tar black road

Silhouette by bloods that slowly turn auburn.

I lay there still in the auburn road

Waiting for the setting sun to touch the horizon

And burn the hills and light the night sky

For my mother, to come find me

And end the night, that bloody Monday -

Of crimson night, and shattered lives.

And there she is –my brave mother,

Untold loss and grief, scarred her sunken face,

Feeble and frail with no more strength to grieve

Yet she stands there mighty against the guns –

A helpless woman –illiterate, scared and lost

She stood her ground to marches on!

Day-in and day-out, she marches on

No time to waste –she can’t stop now

For she fight not for glory, fame or money,

But for the hearts, and the wombs –

The womb of the land that nurtures her;

And her children, the joys of her womb!

She marches on with thousand mothers

Into the abysses where all hope ceases

The battle cries of the warriors, filling the air -

My land, my sons; my home, my blood -

For my children –they scream and march

While their hearts bleed for their fallen sons!

And there I die, in mother’s arm,

We’ll be fine, she promises, we’ll be fine!

But I pray thee, kind kinsmen and strangers,

When you come to visit me in my grave,

Please also wept the tears off of my mother's eyes,

And give her a rose, for she deserve one!

Photo: www.zogam.com

Those Hills I Called Home

I was neck deep at work chasing datelines, but that single photo of two young man lying dead unattended in front of the police station that I was massaged in my phone made me shudder.  But what upset me the most was the fact that those young men were innocent civilian killed by the police, and I was told that there were more dead bodies. 

What connects me and those young men was that we just got called a stranger at our very own home, and that the government just passed a bunch of legislation that can legally kick us off from the land where we have lived for generations.  The knowledge that we can now be easily uprooted from those hills is a thought that is killing us all. Those beautiful blue hills have been our home for ages, those hills are awash with the blood of our forefathers, and those hills are nurtured by the bloods of our ancestors, and it continues to do so, and will remain so as proved by those brave young men died protesting those legislation imposed by some outsiders who wanted to grab our lands.

Even though I live far away in central India, those hills never left me. Every single day, I work up to the sound and sight of things –from the sounds of language and music, the sights of buildings and the people, that reminded me that I don’t belong here.  And no matter how I tried to belong, the people I interact with on everyday basis will remind me of where I belong by asking me where I belong. And I have accepted to live amidst that sense of alienation, and how do I managed that?

I managed to live amidst that constant sense of alienation because deep down in my heart I know that I am not homeless, that I have and belong to a place that I can call a home. But now, the thought that I’ll no longer be able to call those hills as my home tugs my heart, boils my blood and wrenches my soul. Those hills are central to my being, and critical to my existence because no matter where I go and live, those hills are the place that define my being, my identity, and it’s the thought of those hills that drives my life.  

I regrets not being there in the hills physically to stand with my people at this critical time, my sole consolation that I’m contributing to the economy of the hills and that I’m a representative of the hill people to the outsiders does not qualify me to speak to my brave hill peoples, but I want to say this –we are a proud, obstinate and fiercely independent tribes for ages, and we will not be subjugated by some outsiders, we will definitely not be called a stranger at our own home.  

Stay strong Zomi, Zomi are strong!

Lamka: In Search of a Hero

(Please read through the article before you pass your judgement!)

When a slut and a street punk (pardon the language) were made a hero and a rallying point for different and warring tribes to come together, it said something, something big, isn’t it? It said something about the need of an inspiring leadership behind whom we can rally; it said something about our feeling of solidarity/brotherhood among the tribes despite our petty differences; but more than anything, it said something about the system (government), isn’t it?

Consider the following situation: 

Case 1: An ‘Eimi’ girl had an outdoor sex with a ‘meitei’ and you saw them.  What will you think of the girl? The patriot in you might call her a ‘slut’ or wonder if she’s a prostitute, and the civilized you will obviously say ‘it’s none of your business’!  So, what are the chances of the girl becoming a hero?

Case 2: A young man with a punk hair-cut went to the police-station for a case which he had no connection with, and dare to challenge the police, vandalized public properties and disturb the peace there.  What will you call him, a real punk? So, what are the chances of the boy becoming a hero?

Now consider a situation again:

Case 1: A ‘Sister’ (who would otherwise have been dismissed as a slut for hanging out with some ‘outsider’ if she had not been captured and the video circulated and earn everyone’s sympathies) took up the courage despite her humiliation and shame to challenge her torturer through a system which we know was not functional.  

Case 2: A ‘brother’ (who would otherwise have been scoffed at inside our churches for dressing like a street punk) took the opportunity to express his feelings in an impromptu protest for a ‘sister’ he never met, and got killed in the process.  

And put this two together, and we got Heroes!  

[No, this is not how heroes are usually made!  I don’t want our kids to have the wrong idea and run towards khuga dam to become heroes. To me, heroes are all those women sitting in New Bazaar selling vegetables to run their families; heroes are all those fathers who pulled their rick-shaw all day long to feed their family. And for Manipur, let’s just define heroes as those government employees who do the work they are paid to do!  That’s a good enough definition of a hero for Manipur.]

Now, let’s get back to our subject. 

Regarding our sister, she might be a slut or even a prostitute, who cares?  But the fact that she dared to use the system to challenge the system itself is of hero stuff.  It sounds crazy to use a government system that we all know very well doesn't work at all to get justice which she thinks she deserved.  The simple fact that she dared to challenge and stand up for a justice, no matter how crazy that sounds, is enough reason to be a hero in my eye!

Regarding our brother, I wonder what made him stand in the way of the straying bullet? Was he there by accident or just a curious observer of the situation unfolding at the police station? Was he a miscreant out looking for a cheap thrill or a passionate sympathizer of our sister? His intention, that, I don’t know. But one thing I know is that he dared to raise his voice and use his voice by being there to express himself, and that is enough to make him a hero.  (His death is unfortunate, but you don’t need to get yourself killed to be a hero, just saying!)

One thing that connects these two heroes is a system that doesn’t work. The girl used the system to get justice despite the fact that she know the system doesn’t work, and the boy know that the system doesn’t work so he was there to ensure that the system worked so that the girl will get the justice she deserved. 

If the system has worked, and people trusted the system, the IRB people would have been more civilized and not torture a sister, or if he had got his salary regularly, he might not need to make a side-income. If the system had worked and the girl have faith in the system, she would have immediately protested and demanded justice, and she might not need a social worker to demand justice. If the system had worked, everyone will trust the system and the boy will not need to ensure that it worked.

Also, if we had effective leadership, the common man might not have to ensure the working of the system.  If our tribes have not fought each other over petty issues, the system might show us some respect and function. But that’s not the case now.

We definitely don’t want a street punk who vandalized public property, or a slut who have sex in public to be our heroes.  But we need those two.  We need those two to invoke/provoke the sleeping masses who gave up on the system to come out of their comfort zone and demand the system to function. We need those two so that we can cry wolf, that the system is not functioning, and that justice is not rendered, and that someone might actually hear our cries.   We do need those two heroes….but a heroes with less public sexual history and less rebellious deeds would have been nice!

EMPLOYING A MINOR AS DOMESTIC HELP

 

It is becoming pretty common to see young couple within our community here in Delhi and other major cities around India raising their children without the help of the traditional pattern of child-rearing –the grandparents. But in most instances, the young couples are bound to employ domestic help, especially the help of young girls.

It’s good to see our younger generation seeing household chores as worth a full-time job, but in doing so, there are certain rules and laws, as well as human rights involved that one must be fully aware of, so that we don’t destroy someone's life in the process.

It is rare to see cases of young children being sexually abused within our community, but financial exploitation like underpaying could be rampant thought it is conveniently swept under the carpet. In order to raise awareness, here are few points to note especially child labour and child abuse.

CHILD LABOUR

What is Child Labour?
Child Labour, in simple term, refers to work performed by children that HARMS them or EXPLOITS them in one or more ways (physically, mentally, morally, or by blocking access to basic rights like freedom, education, etc.).

Not all labour of children constitute child labour, and there is no universally accepted definition of ‘child labour’, however, if the work done by the child is considered to be harmful or exploitative, or that the child feels that he/she is being harmed or exploited, it is considered as child labour.

Who is a child?
Any child yet to attain the age of 14 years [Child Labour (Prevention & Regulation) Act].

However, depending on the kind of work being done by the child, the employer can also be prosecuted for harbouring child labour by employing anyone yet to attain the age of 18.

Punishment for Employing Child Labourer:
Penalty for violators: 3 months – 1 year of imprisonment and/or fine of Rs. 10,000 - Rs.20,000, Penalty for repeat violators: 6 months to 2 years of imprisonment.

A child working as a domestic help is also considered as child labour if the work done by the child in any ways comes to disrupts, hamper or block the child’s basic human rights. The child’s basic rights include the right to survival (food, nutrition, shelter); to develop to the fullest (cognitively, physically and developmentally); to be protected from harmful influences, abuse and exploitation; and to participate fully in family, cultural and social life.

Majority of child labourer are in need of care and protection, as such, the Juvenile Justice Act, which define a child as anyone yet to attain the age of 18 years, will be applied. Which means, if the domestic help you employed is younger than 18 years of age and the Child Welfare board think he/she is in need of care and protection, the Juvenile Justice Act will be applied. The Juvenile Justice Court is not a civil court, as such it is pro-child, trials are swifter and punishment are much harsher than under the Child Labour Act.

CHILD ABUSE

What is child abuse?
Child abuse is the INTENTIONAL injury or maltreatment of a child by any significant people in the child’s life which lead to temporary or permanent impairment of the child’s physical, mental or psycho-social development, or disability or death.

‘Significant people’ includes anyone of any age, any sex, related or unrelated to the child, including parents, legal and non-legal guardians, employers, etc.

Who is a child?
Anyone yet to attain the age of 18 years of age [Juvenile Justice (Child in Need of Care & Protection) Act].

What constitute child Abuse?
Abuses are of three major types – physical, emotional & sexual. But financial exploitation is also considered as a form of abuse nowadays.

1. Physical Abuse includes – any act of physical aggression including beating, trashing, slapping, punching, pinching, pulling by hair or clothes, pushing, throwing, biting, burning with hot object, branding, aggressive handling, arm twisting, etc.
2. Emotional Abuse includes – verbal and non-verbal; cursing, humiliating, degrading, frightening, threatening, belittling, name-calling, habitual blaming, constant hostility toward them, etc.
3. Sexual Abuse includes – touching and non-touching behaviours including kissing, fondling, touching private part, rubbing genitals on the child, forcing them to touch your private parts or forcing them to any kind of sexual activities, and inserting body parts and/or objects in into the private part, anus and mouth of the child or attempting to do that. The non-touching behaviour includes undressing, voyeurism, exposing them to pornography or exhibition of private parts to them.
4. Financial Exploitation includes – paying less, not paying or not paying in time, withholding payment for reason or no reason, etc.

Employing anyone below the age of 14, no matter what are the conditions and terms you agreed on, is a crime. In such case, if any other person like the parents of the child agreed to let the child be employed, the parents too could be prosecuted for human trafficking.

Abusing anyone, no matter what type of abuse it is, is a crime, and the crime become graver if the abused person is yet to attain the age of 18. The JJ Act also includes the parents/guardian as possible perpetrators, so it is applicable for the family as well i.e. if you abuse your own children, your children can charge you for abuse.

Concluding Remarks: We the north-eastern are often labelled as westernized, it is true to some extent. However, we still have this traditional tribal mind-set when it comes to laws and legal matter by solving it through traditional channel, or making traditional arrangement to help with domestic chores by providing basic education to the child while helping with the domestic chores, or taking children under guardianship.

It is good that if we are providing education to the less fortunate children of our relatives, and it is good if we could maintain consensus and avoid ugly legal wars by solving serious matter including murder using our traditional channel. But in many instance, societal sanction against certain behaviours is just not enough to deal with the magnitude of the crime and the crimes of the perpetrators. In cases like child sexual abuse, the abusers usually are serial abuser. And there is no denying that there certainly must be some such cases among us.

PS: In cases that come under the Juvenile Justice Act, the child can be made to undergo medical test to determine his/her age even if a proper birth certificate is provided.

Child Helpline : 1098

WILL SOMEONE APOLOGIZE TO ME FOR '97?

Recently I read about a series of significant historical apology made by leaders for something that was done many years ago like the Australian Prime Minister Kevin Rudd’s apology to the Aborigines for inflicting grief, suffering and loss that happened more than half a century ago. And, that get me to thinking if I can ever expect anyone at all to apologize to me for what happened in ’97, and for its aftermath, the consequences and scars it left on my life?

They said that an apology is the first-step towards starting any kind of healing process. And for sure, even after a decade, I’m still nursing those consequences. Every time I cursed my lot, I can trace its root to ’97 –for throwing me out of school and out of my normal routine of life; for taking away my home and friends, for filling my childhood memories with horrible images and thus, stealing my childhood.

I am not the only one affected. There are more, much more, who were at critical stages of their life at that time, and who, otherwise, have been promised much by life but could not achieve just because of what happened. Those people deserve an apology even much more than me.

First of all let me clear that I’m not referring to us apologizing to them or vice versa (if that is possible it will be superb). But for the time being I’m referring to something like a father to son apology. Some of us may argue if an apology is needed at all, saying that we all had gone through the same situation, or that we were only defending ourselves or that there is no reason for us to apologize since it’s not our fault.

It is true that we needed to protect ourselves particularly at that time and especially in view of the inherent apathy of our state government. But who are we protecting when we started killing people of our own or when we extorted, harassed and exploited the very people that we were/are supposed to be protecting?

It’s very well if you argued that we were left with no choice or option but to strike back. It may sound a bit cliché but there always is choice and options if we want. I am not saying that we could avoid it or the situation could have been handled in a better way, but I am saying that we could have mitigated its impact better especially among the younger generation, and don’t let its effect, especially the psychological aspect, linger on for so long. By the way, they says it takes two to tango, so what did we do, consciously or unconsciously, for them to do what they did?

It is also true that we all went through the same ’97. But no, CAPITAL NO, it was NOT the same situation that we went through in ’97. You and I were at totally different footing at that time and we are not the same either now; our socio-economic status were not the same; our conditions were not the same; our losses were not the same; its impact on the region, village, family and individual were not the same either. In fact, some of us even gained from it, when some of us lost everything… Under no parameter can this be called the same!

You may not want to admit it, but ’97 does have an impact on each one of us, and most likely, in the negative way. You may be trying to see the bright side and counting your blessing or thanking your luck for surviving it but you have to admit that you could have been more than what you are now if not for what happened in ’97.

But the problem is who will apologize. Will our respective community leaders take responsibility and apologize? Well, we all doubt that so much it almost sound funny! So where do we start? You and I can very well apologize to each other, but still, someone, some people, with authority and claim will still owe us an apology. And I am not sure if I would ever hear that in my life time.

I have no claim to represent or have authority to speak for anyone other than me. So I am going to speak for myself and start by saying –

I APOLOGIZE FOR WHAT HAPPENED TO YOU IN
’97!

Will you too apologize to me… please?

That Little Village My Parents Love So Dear…

Every alternate year, I went back to that little village despite dreading the seemingly endless journey.  Despite being provided with options and having alternate and much better places to live, my parents insist to continue living in that obscure little mountain village often inaccessible during rainy season, with a distant mobile phone network that works just a few days a year.

That little village is also the place where they brought us up their six children.  It must be the one place they wanted to brought up their children and grandchildren but that’s not the case for my parents.  None of us stayed back and none wanted to live there in the future so we all tried to make up by spending our summer and/or winter holidays with them rather than getting away to one of those exotic location often advertised in those glossy magazines like most people do.  Of their eight grandchildren two were born in their presence and the last one was over a decade ago now.

That doesn’t meant I don't like the place.  No matter what that little village is the one place I still called home and my heart still beats for it.  Despite my untiring complaints of  everything, from the lack of privacy to my inability to use my mobile phone or wifi-internet connection, and despite my unending whining about the lack of basic infrastructures and the government’s apathy, I still yearn for that village and the simple people who live there.

My mother sent me off to live with my Brother just before I entered my teenage years not only because of the ethnic troubles at that time, but also to escape the drug-prone environment.  Moving to Delhi has been dramatic for me in many ways.  But I'm not complaining or blaming my Mother, rather I thanked her for letting me face the real world early without waiting for the inescapable reality we are ought to face in the future and being caught unprepared.

My whole family has been scattered across India and abroad.  My parents are getting old and there are slim chances of a family get-together.  I often wondered if my parents ever felt lonely and regret sending all of us off.  Mother always explained that it’s for our own good and with the hope that we can make something out of ourselves. 

I can’t say we made something out of ourselves with pride –to other, we are still nothing but we did it okay.  We all would loved if our parents wanted to live with at least one of us in a city, but they have sacrificed enough doing without us and we are not going to ask them to part with the one place they love.  Apart from that, I often observed how handicapped and worthless they felt in the few occasion they came to visit us. 

In the village, they have farm and garden to keep them busy, animals to take care of, have close relatives as neighbours who sought their advice for every decision and can take care of them if the needs be. They have a full and dignified life there, the only thing amiss is their children. If they had lived with us, they have to give up all that since life in a city call for a totally different life style. We don’t want them to make so many changes and adjustments so late in their life or feel sorry about themselves for the remaining years of their life.

We know how much they miss us and we miss them too.  It’s a sacrifice –a sacrifice to maintain dignity, to show our respect and love and as a token of thanks –a sacrifice that we all understand.  That’s the reason why we never wanted to drag them away from the one place they love –the place that we all realized we are still in love with.

The Way We Are...

I often thought of my family as a dysfunctional one. Oh, make that a clan, or better still make it a tribe. Discussing family issues are few and far off. Sometimes, we even use outside mediator to convey messages. But dysfunctional… well, that sounds a bit cliché.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my family. But I cannot help if we, the Zomi, are absolute minimalist when dealing with our family. However, saying that wouldn’t be entirely true though. We are a much more complicated lot especially when it comes to expressing our emotions.

Say, when it comes to love, intimacy, appreciation, etc. we don’t use physical or vocabulary expression at all. For instance, whenever I returned home to see my parents, I missed them so much I wanted to hug them, but an awkward hand-sake is all I got!

Even a mere hand-sake is not used commonly. When I was in college, I mumbled so many times to my friends ‘why we have to shake hand every time we bump into each others’ that it became my by-line. Even today, I still can’t pick-up that habit and often caused me quite a number of awkward situations.

There was this joke circulating in our village about a man who returned home from Delhi and every morning when he wake up, he shook the hand of everyone he pass by, that includes his brothers and sisters and parents. His families were so embarrassed that they kept someone to guard him so that they can rush outside the house as soon as he woke up!

On the other hand, when it comes to grieving, our women cried a lot and loudly so (the men are, of course, not suppose to cry. (If you do, you can be an exceptional case)! In fact, some women think it as a duty and seemed to enjoy it. Sometimes one cannot help wondering if they are giggling or crying. I knew of a certain woman who saw it as a good excuse to let-out their emotions. I’m not sure how relieving that would be!

As I said before we are a society that’s intimacy shy. Our conversations are bared to the minimum. Of course, there are people who talked like a machine gun, but when the topics hits closer to home, the machine gun tongue comes in slow motion. If you are eavesdropping on in a family that you never knew, but the following conversations between the brothers make sense to you, it’s only that you never knew them before;-

A. “I’m getting married”,
B. (As he leave the dinning table) “What for”
- End –

The above conversation doesn’t need any analysis and you don’t need the brain of a rocket scientist to know where it is headed for -for it already ends. And the content is self explanatory enough. By the way, if you wonder what will follow the above conversation, well, the role of a mediator will come to play between the brothers or ‘A’ will get drunk and ransack the house. …simple! But this family is in no way dysfunctional!

It’s not surprising to find so few lawyer and good debater among us. If you insist that we do, I might agree; they are called women; and if this is true, there indeed are few women even among our women! (Well, my friend here suggested if it is a ‘he’, he could be a CC. But I think that would be rather outrageous).

One thing about the mainlander that never fail to amuse us when we first arrived is that that they talk so loud and when they have problem; they argued, they shouted, they pointed fingers, but the punches never come. Among us, it’s the reverse; punches come first than the problem! What I meant is, they talk too much, too loud, unlike most of us.

Another thing is our food habit. A relative once amused me with ‘ganda machli’; of course, it’s what they called ‘ngari’ in places like Shillong. But just think of what it translates to in English! Our food habits are amusing to others, though it sounds lame if we compare to the Chinese’s but most people don’t know what the Chinese eat. Still, I think it’s a good idea to shut our mouth about ‘uisa’!

Another thing that is amusing to others is our big extended family. I once read in a national weekly about a restaurateur in Delhi describing how he happened to employ north-easterner only. He said he employed a north-eastern girl, who has a cousin, and the cousin has another cousin and so on (…or something like that)! That’s so true. Around here, anyone from the north-east is a relative, at least to casual enquirer.

Well, there are plenty of amusing things about everything, and they are not that amusing after all. And to go back to the dysfunctional stuff, I mean the family part; I think it’s more of a universal phenomenon among us, the Zomi, and not just my family.

For instance, my father is a good debater, but he’s not a woman though. My mother has a sharp tongue and we have lots of fun when we are together. But when it comes to resolving family problems, we too feel the needs of a mediator. So, what else will explain the existence of the ‘tanu’, ‘thusa’, etc. system among us?

(Abridged)

You still are a Zomi even if-

1. You called yourself a Zomi, but don’t know how many sub-tribes are there under the umbrella term of Zomi!

2. You called yourself a Zomi, but your Tribe Certificate says something else!

3. You come from Zogam, but don’t know where exactly Zogam begins or ends!

4. You are not sure if Mizoram is part of Zogam or not!

5. You don’t know where exactly Ciimnuai is!

6. You don’t know, and never bothered to ask the ultimate objectives of the ZRA, CNF, etc. but you are a sympathizer!

7. You are smart enough to write and speak fluent English but fumbled for words when expressing yourself or writing in your mother tongue!

8. You can’t complete a single sentence without a bit of Meitei, Kawl, Hindi or/and English!

9. Your CD case is flooded with various Zomi VCDs but you are too embarrassed to play them in the presence of your non-Zomi friends!

10. You are an NRZ (Non-Resident Zomi)!

(Okay, okay, I admit I’m one of them…but don’t look at me like that!!!)

A Heady Cocktail called Zo Unification

It had been a long time, long before I was born, the drums of unification was first heard in our land. Even today, the sound can still be heard and it is as hollow as was then. And most of you optimistic folks won’t disagree that it don’t sound too pessimistic to say that the drum is too hollow, too dull and too damp to make much noise even today.

In this age of globalization and generalization, when the issues of identity, nationality and other personal lives take the backseat; when humanity are reduced to mere consumers, and when the borders are but a blurred line in their atlas, we, the Zomi, are endangered. Violence makes much noise, but that is not the best option for us or for that matter for anyone. We need more than mere noise, but loud, sensible and intelligent voices that will be heard far and beyond, and we all know that a handful of men don’t make much noise.

What we need right now is a common identity without which there can be no unity. Without unity, there can be no common voices and no common causes. And without all that, all our dreams, our hopes and our fights will mean nothing. Different voices coming from different corner doesn’t make enough noise, but different voices coming from the same platform does make a loud sound. And a common identity is that platform.

Some would argue that we already have had a common generic identity, but I want to assure them that the identity that they talk about is recognized nowhere in this world. When I talk about a common identity, I don’t count the assumptions that you made. By common identity, I mean, an identity that is identifiable with a distinct name, distinct tribe, and a distinct area of inhabitation with the same pattern of life, practice and tradition, and is recognizable as well as legally recognized by the world.

The saddest part is that we already had that ‘common identity’ I talked about and the only thing is we don’t want to adopt it. It is appalling to know that instead of relishing our potentiality to unleash and command unequalled power within the region by being united, we try to swallow each other while some of us still vigorously try to assert their presence within our own community.

Someone once told me our core issue could very well be recognizing the existence of smaller clans, linguistic groups and tribes within the larger ‘Zo’ community, which could lead to stabilization. I beg to differ on some nuances; firstly, that is the very reasons we are fighting each other, secondly ghettoizing on linguistic basis will defeat the very purpose of common identity and it is also dangerous (remember ’97), and thirdly, we are not the Nagas (we are much closer than that).

Clan is something that we cannot throw away, but language is a process that evolve non-stop. There’s no denying that ’97 got 97% to do with linguistic, but one thing that must be noted is that when it comes to communicating with each other, we never caught ourselves in the tower of Babel. And if we stopped ghettoizing and co-existed freely and peacefully, there is a chance that the Babel will fall down on its own. That definitely is better than our numerous dialects die a death of obscurity; after all, it’s not your clan but the dialect that you speak that decides where you belonged.

For us, the Zomi, to start building a common identity will be a mammoth as well as minor task. On the one hand, we shared everything in common for so long that we hardly see our differences and always think of ourselves as brothers and sisters, while on the other hand, we had never been united (in the form of nation or state) and even today, we take our own adopted path with our own adopted identity.

If the Zomi had been united, or at least organized to some extend, the course of history may have been different. If we had been organized with one voice, there possibly is no way that a tribe or linguistic groups that occupied so vast a span of the empire can be ignored by the British at the time of leaving the sub-continent. It only means nobody take notice of us. And taking into consideration the rate at which we consume ourselves in selfish pursuit of personal gains, unification seems to be a far cry.

Within the given situation right now, drumming for unification is like Dahpa’s Jhum. If we are serious about unification, why not start with the basic thing –a common identity. Paite, Zou, Simte, Sukte, Vaiphei, etc. are recognized tribes under the constitution of India, but when it comes to the common name 'Zomi' –no one bothers.

It will not be a mistake to say that the Zomi are not ready for any kind of unification. That simply, is evident from the communities’ unwillingness to discard our respective adopted identity as recognized by the government in favour of the more factually correct generic name of ‘Zomi’. It is a simple case of correcting an error though the legal process may be a long and winding one, but starting that process would only prove our sincerity.

It is time to share what we have in common as a Zomi and the tie that bind us together as our forefather symbolized it by the Hornbill, and stop pointing out our differences. Celebrating our diversity may be a good thing, but it is also one roadblock towards unification. Why don’t we put away the ‘I/me' and start doing something, even if we failed, at least it will give the next generation something to built their case on.

‘97 has brought about an atmosphere of suspicion and it does and will take a long time to built-up the hardly existing trust system between the communities. It may sounds hilarious when President Bush said “I know the human being and fish can coexist peacefully”, but I’m not sure if it would be hilarious to says that we, the Zomi, can co-exist peacefully.

For Our Tomorrow..?

Exactly a decade has passed since I last stand here. I can still feel the sting of the evening winds, it still whispers in my ears and the hustles of leaves can still be heard –but the smell, it smells different.

I sat down at the trunk of the old ugly oak tree where I used to sit. The tree –not deterred by age and change, sprouted new saplings whose buds are snipped by the mark of a sharp tool, most probably held by some itching hand.

I used to sit in one of its poking branch overlooking the whole village and its valley. A dry stump with marks of axe partially hidden by undergrowth is the remaining remnant of that branch which, to my childish imagination, put the village and its valley under my mercy.

I don’t care where I sit now, I don’t bother how much I have to bend or in what position must I put my foot to step over the village, nor do I bother to count the number of houses anymore. The voices of playful children coming from the village don’t lull me nor the call of darkness scares me, but the beckoning of my conscience makes me restless.

I looked around; the stark contrast between the two sides of the mountain ranges provoked my always helpless conscience. From the village, looking up at the vast green covering of the mountain ranges is a pure delight for the senses. As long as I can remember, this ranges of mountain has been a restricted zone as it was the main source of water that gurgle down the gorges through the little brooks that supply water to the village and paddy fields.

But looking at the leeway side of that very range is a different story. It had never been deprived of its green covering thought never a protected forest. I remember women folks climbing up the mountain to collect firewood –it was abundant enough, they never had to cut down any standing tree. But a decade has totally washed down its greenery.

Small dugouts –burnt and black, can be seen everywhere. In most of the dugouts, you can see people packing or digging-out the black burned-out remains of the trees that once covered the place, and nearby them, bags of charcoal lies in a haphazard row. Farther down the slope, clouds of smokes seeped out of small foxholes. The smokes come from the burning woods buried beneath the ground.

Those bags of charcoal will be transported to Lamka, and from there –they don’t bother. But the little income they earn from the charcoal is their lifeline. Times have changed; the land is not as fertile as it used to be. The hard, day long toil at the field can no longer sustain their simple existence.

The glowing rays of the sun can be seen in the far horizon; at least that horizon is still dense with trees. Just then I heard a voice calling out my name, it was my aunt. It would otherwise have been hard to recognize her blackened face if not for her shrill voice. She reminded me that I should be at home unless I wanted another bout of malaria. Indeed, it is funny to see what a tiny little mosquito can do.

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

SEE LAMKA AND DIE!

The road was bumpy, the ride was long and the bus ran furiously. We were on our way to Lamka from Dimapur. There was an eerie silence inside the bus amidst the noisy engine and clanking of the bus. Each one was occupied in his own thought. I stole a quick glance of the other passengers and the faces I saw rather baffled me. I wonder, what good do those Marwaris and Biharis bring to our land?

Reaching down Imphal valley, the air was humid and cloud of dusts danced on our trail. My little niece was not impressed by the sight, she chose to cover her face and doze off. I thought that was a better idea than ‘trying’ to admire those balding mountain ranges, so I followed suit.

Despite the hideous daylight, and being stiff all-over from the day long torture, once we were there, the sounds of Lamka excited us enough to scramble for the door.

“Eew!” shrieked my little niece, stopping at the door. I don’t know what it was, but being nudged from behind, I pushed my niece and jumped down right after her. It was my turn to shout “eew!” I’d just landed in a pig sty! Well, that ‘pig sty’, officially, is called CCPur Bus Station.

Anyway, struggling along Tedim Road, it doesn’t take me much time to notice the shift of gravity in Lamka. My beloved Lamka, it has changed, and that too –for the worst, and it’s crumbling down! The building mourned under its weight and age, the drains cried for help and the roads struggled in agony with every passing vehicle throwing up heaps of dusts. The ghost of the old town gagged me with its stench and dust, upsetting my stomach, and squeezing my tear duct to the last drop with every gust of wind.

I don’t know if living in the metros for all these years have prejudiced my eyes and judgement, but Lamka is no longer the Lamka that was deeply etched in my heart, it is just a pathetic caricature of the old town.

Lamka of yonder years is a confluence of all culture –desirable and non-desirable, with none being dominant. It was the gateway to the world and life, it was the centre of education and learning, it was the centre of entertainment and life –of the enlightened sort.

I remember guitar strumming young men and women strolling the night streets and alleys, crooning Lianlunching, Lienzapao and Lengtong Pauno with the same aplomb. I remember people struggling for tickets at Light-house, I remember people rushing from all over the district to Lamka for the best of education, but, alas, we can only say ‘those were the days’!

There is no denying ’97 has dramatically changed our world, and of course, Lamka cannot caught itself in a time wrap. It has to change. Change we must, move we must, but in which way and which direction?

We definitely moved and changed, but in the wrong direction. We continued to mistake communalism for nationalism, and terrorism for patriotism, rendering a thick cloud of suspicions hanging in the air.

It will not be a mistake to say that the mass exodus of young men and women from Lamka is the direct consequence of such mentality. Nobody wants their children to grow-up in Lamka anymore. Those who can afford prefer to flee and live ‘outside’ or at least let their children study elsewhere, and with big relief.

I don’t want to sound like one of those self-appointed moral guardian, but I cannot help commenting on the declining brotherhood in the society. There is a big shift from the traditional societal living to individualism. The previously unnoticed differences in the pronunciation of a certain words stand higher as a boundary than the high walls they built to mark their plots –and we still sing ‘tuun sung khat pan’?

Corruption was rampant, so much so that even within the church, it was put as an ‘understood’ thing and was conveniently swept under the carpet –and they continued dancing and praying on that carpet! The once pitiable government servant are now the one who are most envied as they can keep drawing their salary without even working for a single day! And shall I say, Lamka thrives on them?

My big cousin who is a Headmaster of a Government School in a certain faraway village offered me to show his new building. I declined, I just cannot digest it. The building, and every newly built building I saw in Lamka, disgust me as much as the dirty drain that flowed in their nerves. They are dirty and stained, like each and every soiled currency note I saw was stained with tears and bloods of overtly exploited poor farmers who risked their head to earn it. How many people must have been deprived of their basic standard of life by the owner of such building, and other luxuries, so as to enable them to afford them?

To me each and every one of the government employee of Manipur are doubtable –doubtable of being corrupt. If I am at fault, it’s not my fault, rather it is theirs –for letting me believe to such extend. They said I am a pessimist, I am, I don’t denied that. But who can be so positive after tampering upon the not so hidden dirty drains running beneath the ground?

Every time I come to Lamka, it never does me good but antagonize me. A friend suggested that, may be, I am failing to see the bright and positive side of the situation, well thinking of anything positive there, my mind just went –well, blank. My friend suggested Khuga Dam, to me Khuga Dam is nothing but a picnic spot, a humiliating mockery of the thousands of lives it uprooted!

May be, the only positive thing that I saw there was –that my drug abusing HIV+ cousin died a decent death at Shalom while I was there. Thank you very much; the very presence of Shalom and its tribe is not a positive sign of development, since you can never say that you are very proud of (with due respect to) the dedicated doctors and nurses who work there. But I’ll definitely give a standing ovation, once, the people who run homes like Shalom, Priscilla Homes and Gamnuam, etc, are rendered unemployed.

Well, I should end my ranting here or else, it will destroy my mood every time I think of home until I can call that rented flat in Dwarka as my home. But the fact is Lamka is my home, and I love it. It is the place that gives me my now so cherished childhood memories as well as the nightmares in the form of ‘97. But no matter what, it will always remain my home and I would jump with happy feet every alternate year to return there.

Go and see Lamka, if you don’t die of ecstasy, you would die of revulsion. But if you think you survived, check yourself again, may be your heart, you mind or soul is being buried in one of the alleys of that old town, but for certainty, once you are there, you will never be the same. SEE LAMKA AND DIE!

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

Just What I Don't Need

When I planned to go home one sweaty night a month ago, I never planned for one this. Well, looking back now, there are many things which I failed to foresee and forget to put it on my plan, but then I can manage with them or without them. But the last thing that bothered me was to be used as a guinea pig!

A week at home at 1400+ metre above sea level, I was down with typhoid or they said so. Well, in this God forsaken village, the doctor is the pharmacist, and they said he is as good as a doctor but he is not a trained one so everywhere else, he will be called a quack!

The first two day, I was down with fever with high temperature. At high noon, I was shivering with cold even after covering myself with three blankets. I was given a combination of 'Combina Forte’ and 'Nimesulide + Paracetamol’ tablets. Later when I complained of my foot being ice-cold, the said I could be typhoid and my medication was changed accordingly. I was given tablets of 'Chloramphenico’' which I took thrice a day and after another two days, when my situation did not improve they changed my medicine to the more effective (that's what they said, not me) 'Ciprofloxacin - 500 m’.

That medicine seemed to work as on the first day itself it reduced my regular two-three fever a day to one. Another two more days and when my one fever a day did not decline further, my parents suggested that I could be contracting malaria!

The doubt, quickly agreed to by the quack resulted in the addition of another medicine! From the next morning when I took my medicine, apart from my usual dose for typhoid, I have to take two tablet of 'Quinine Sulphate’ thrice a day.

The medicine must be very strong as I hears insects and birds chirping in my ears for the whole day and have to live the life of a deaf for two days. When I complained of not hearing anything and the chirping insects, they all knowingly nodded their heads to suggest that the medicines worked as it should be!

Thanks to the quacks (including my parents) I was up and going after two weeks in bed. The moment I was up, I rushed around the house poking all over the dust-bins searching for the empty covers of the medicines that I was given so that I can wrote down the detailed combination that makes up the tablet so that I can possibly look for their potential side-effect on the net once I was back to Delhi.

And hopefully, I'll be back in a short while!!!

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

On Vacation

I'll be out for sometime but when I came back, I hope I'll have something more interesting to post about. Apart from that, I have a number of unfinished writings from the past number of years that I hoped to finish during this vacation. Some of the unfinished pieces that I hoped to post in the near future are:

1. SEE LAMKA AND DIE!


2. Zo Church: The Deadliest Political Institution


3. Church Leaders: The Worst Role Models


4. Zomi: On the Edge


5. Being Realistic: A Myth called Zogam


6. On Spring Break: A Heady Cocktail called Zo Re-Unification / Organisation

Another Obsession

One thing that cannot miss your attention while walking the streets of Lamka, Aizawl and Shillong, apart from the old dusty crumbling building and the narrow and pot-hole filled roads, is the big heaps of second-hand (used) apparels laying all along the roads. You get everything from shoes to cap, gloves to over-coats, and the prices ranges from very cheap to an exorbitant (for a used items, I mean) thousands.

It is true that used apparels (or second-hand, as we simply called it) is available everywhere. You can find them in Imphal, Shillong, Guwahati, Delhi, and in most cities and towns. But it doesn’t get any bit bigger than anywhere where we north-eastern are present in large numbers. For instance, in Delhi, if you visit the Sunday morning market at the entrance of IG Stadium, you can simply tell by the look of their face that most of the customers are North-Easterners. The first time I went there I was so shocked to see so many north-easterners especially since I’m pretty aware that we are very late riser, especially on the weekends, when we hardly see the morning!

It is not that I’m against such apparels –in fact I love shopping there though I certainly am not a regular. But my question is –why are we so obsessed about such market? Does it got something to do with our images, appearances or identities? Does it reflect our economic condition and/or our attitude?

My friend often says that it reflects our economic condition while I cannot totally agree. You can buy a new jeans pant at some other local market for the prices that you pay for a used one at such flee market. For instance you can get a new jeans pant for as low as Rs. 200 at Janpath while the minimum price for a jeans at such flee market is around Rs. 250. Likewise, the shoes usually come around at one thousand rupees and we still buy them ignoring the cheap but new shoes available at the local market.

Another friend says that it is the comfort factor that makes him wear such clothes. It is true that such clothes fit us better than the local made one -branded or not. I totally understand the comfort factor especially since I was never able to get a shirt that is a little smaller than size ‘40’ which is the smallest men’s cloths made locally but is big for me. On the other hand, the used clothes that we buy are imported from Korea and Taiwan, and since we are racially and physically similar, it fits us well.

So, the other question is –is it really the comfort factor or are we just image (brand) conscious as it appears? This is a very difficult question to answer especially when it concern we north-eastern living outside the north-east. If you are a north-eastern living outside the north-east, then you’ll most probably know what I’m talking about. For those of us people, image is not just about our appearance and the brand that we flashed, it is an IDENTITY. For us, it is difficult to separate image, attitude, and identity which are all linked to a concept called alienation.

It is true that we buy at such market because they are big branded-names and, since we cannot afford a new branded one which comes at a fortune. This way, it levels us with our rich friends at college. But the other underlying reason is that wearing such clothes –which are not easily available in the local market, makes us look different. Different from the usual suspect which they often mistaken us for -and which infuriate us always. In that sense, by wearing such clothes we are asserting our attitude (of being different) and identity (of being a north-eastern and not from the Himalayas).

Different –it helps you stand out in the crowd. It will cost you a fortune if you are going to buy a brand new dress which will make you stand out in the crowd but such clothes –which are imported and cheap, helps you look different and stand out in the crowd. This is also one reason why the cheap Chinese made ‘fake Converse’ shoes from Moreh are very popular with north-easterners across the country. In this way, it is also a statement –a statement that we belong to a different crowd and not to the crowd here.

Another reason is (I’m sorry to add this) it also shows our obsession with the West. We watched MTV and English movies and anything that comes from the Far West and Far East. And we wanted what they got but we cannot afford it. It is only through such market that we can lay our hand on something like theirs and start acting like them. And, it is no surprise that Mizoram has more westernized, fashion conscious, bling covered Rappers & Hip-Hop artists than the rest of India!

So the next time you stepped out of the house, if, by chance, you see a north-eastern chap with a loose pant hanging low –sweeping the street, a big t-shirt and a big white shoes with a rucksack and an unusual cap, don’t simply judge him as some unruly ruffian because there are more than enough reasons that he is making a statement and asserting his identities through his dressing senses.

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

LOST IN TRANSLATION

It is always great to be home. To meet your parents, relatives and friends whom you don’t see for the last 3-4 years and to re-live the ‘moments’ that struck you with a sense of déjà vu after seeing a particular thing or faced with some particular situation. But it is not that great when the trains of memories chugged down along the dark and windy cavern of reality that is presently waiting for you. You cannot help comparing between the one scene that was etched in your head like a fairyland and the one that is presently spread before your eyes.

But the worst thing is it will not stop until it ran havoc the flimsy imagination that you used to cream the harsh reality. Then the train will stop, falling down the gorge head first down and you are woken up by the ugliness of the present which will enslaved you till you got some legitimate reason to get out of there.

You might think that I will be dying to go home after staying away from it for nearly a decade now. And you might probably assume that I would take no notice of the long and dangerous way that we have to pass through to reach home. That is like saying Antarctica is in my neighbourhood –it is far from true. And to tell the truth I am not eager at all to go home -to meet the old ghosts which are made much wilder by the newer and younger ghosts.

To me that little hamlets perched out in the jungle of the north-east India is like a God forsaken country –one can only say it is unfortunate. It is as difficult to get in there as it is in getting out of it. Meeting your parents for the love value and meeting relatives and old friends is heart warming. But it is the aftermath that is depressing. And stay for another day and everything will remind you that you are lost in translation.

Even though I never really feel at home when I am in Delhi, I miss and long for it when I am away. I cannot say the same is true of my home. I don’t know if I misread my minds. But I am sure that it shows the sense of tie and attachment are missing. That is why I said I am lost in translation –I belong neither here nor there.

The truth is I miss my parents, my family, relatives and friends and not the place. I like the place but not for living there permanently –only as a place to spent some times. Where else could I get the fresh air, the clean and clear flowing water, the lush green environment, the sunsets and sunrises? What I don’t like is the environment, the new culture and attitudes of people.

I hate those who accepted corruption as a natural things, I hate those government doctors who charged the poor and helpless for the free surgery, I hate those government welfare schemes distributor who pocket them all, I hate those who did not work but draw their salaries anyway, I hate those church elders who don’t practice what they preach, and above all, I hate those gun trotting animals strutting around looking for some helpless victim.

How can I possibly live among those I hate? But on the other hand, if I ever forsake the place, the missing ties will never be restored, and I’ll be lost forever. I hate being lost; the concept of itself makes me guilty. I have lost my cultural identity already, I have no place to be identified with, I lost my tradition, I lost my religion, and by deserting the place, I’ll be severing that last single ties that I have with my identity.

I want to be here, I want to be there, and I don’t belong neither here nor there. There is so much contradiction, too much complication; it makes me confused, dizzy and guilty. It seems globalization is catching up far too fast with us. It seems there will never be a Zogam or Zoland and I’ll never have an identity that will burn my spirit to trot forward confidently into this world.

After many centuries of losing their country the Jews have returned back to their homes, after a centuries of migration, the Chinese have returned back to their motherland, after half a century of brain-drain in mainland India, they are flocking back home now, but when will the Zomi return home? When will they have a home that they can call theirs and recognized by the world? When can they have an identity of their own?

Right now, all I can say is –God only knows. We Zomi, including me, are one good case of a tribe lost in translation. I wanted to be back home, and I don’t want to be back home. I don’t want to be here nor there and I don’t belong neither here nor there. But to be sure I’m not a crow pretending to be a peacock, only a simple case of mistranslation. A simple case of mistranslation which can be corrected, I sincerely do hope so. ©lyan

Tags: mizo, zomi, zogam

I’M LOST! (SOMEBODY HELP ME)

Last night, my niece approached me to help her with her assignment of listing the names of 100 endangered species of animals. She is a bright little child and she had already managed 99 names and was needing my help for the last one final species that will give her 100% marks. I have to admit that I don’t know much about those thing and even the few that I knew were already listed. I offered to look it up in the net, that is when my friend, always the joker, chipped in to suggest my name to complete the list.

We had a good laugh at that time, but late at night when I think again about it, there is nothing funny about it. Rather, the irony of the joke sickened me. I try to ignore it as a simple joke, but the more I think about it, the more it makes me uneasy.

It hurts to think that I, a proud Zomi should be in the list of the endangered species. I’m simply not ready to accept that that I, who would painstakingly explain to everyone where the fictitious Zogam is –instead of just saying Manipur when I’m asked of my native place, should now be in the verge of extinction. The simple thought of it totally unsettled me. I don’t know why. May be, because it is the truth. I wonder why reality is always harsh and truth always hurt.

Zomi -on the verge of extinction? It may sounds exaggerated or you may questions the connection between that little joke and the Zomi, as a whole. Well, I do admit that I sweat out at the first sight of danger and get panicky at the false alarm. And I must admit that I don’t represent the Zomi as a whole – but let me also admit that as a human, the only claim that I’ve got is being a Zomi and I’m pretty proud of that fact.

How serious I was? Well, like all my peers, my favourite song is Thawn Kham’s Zogam song. I got a high every time such a genre of songs are played and apart from that I make sure that I never missed any of the Zo festival and tried hard, even though sleepily, and learned the roots and beginning of such festivals.

Everything seems so ironic and pretentious now. I see no more point is singing “Zogam aw, ken hong taisan kei ning” from Delhi, or for that matter, from Yangon, Tokyo, Florida or any of the “tuipi gal pan”. After all I spent half of my life here in Delhi and feel more comfortable conversing and thinking in my broken English. And if I were back home right now, I’d be itching to abandon it, especially after knowing the easy way of life that a city affords.

But, let face it. Who can deny that we are not lost but firmly grounded in our tradition? I don’t need to remind you how many Davids, Josheps and Marys we have had among us? And, how many of them can speak; forget about the writing part, our language? As for our brethrens in Chinhills, forget it, the youngsters can hardly write or read their names in our own Romanized script.

When we talk about the concept of lost, we often thought only about the ‘tuipi gal ate’. Yes, I can’t deny that these people, including me, are not dying to go back home, but to spent a few day there, and that too, sadly only as a holidayer since we cannot afford other tourist hotspot. But let me tell you, those people who stayed back home did not fare much better either.

The other Sunday, I sat down to read some magazines sent from home in Manipur. I cannot help getting a goose bump when I found an editorial page of a reputed newspaper written by someone by the name of ‘Nowluck’ followed by a Sunday magazine whose editor goes with the name of ‘Heartjoe’! My friend cannot help wondering if these people moved a little down south, will they be called ‘Nowlucka’ or ‘Heartjoei’!

There is no denying that we all, either willingly or unwillingly, abandoned our home in search of a better life. Even all those who still live back home will not miss to grab the fist opportunity to leave after all having one or more family members in a foreign country is a social symbol that everyone looked up on. It would have been another fairy tale had we all returned back home with the money and degree that we earned but alas, we all dreaded returning back home by that time.

But the saddest part of the story is that even if we wanted to, we simply cannot return home. The simple fact is that there is no opportunity of employment and earning our livelihood. The other sad irony is that instead of our ‘tuipi gal a te’ returning home, all those students studying back home will have to leave once they are eligible for graduate school since there is not a single good college back home. And it is doubtable that they would return because of the lack of opportunity as said before.

The simple fact is that we certainly are lost if not in the endangered list. You cannot blame me and my tribe alone. The sense and sign of lost are everywhere.

Even if I’m not lost yet, at least thinking of all these makes me lost my mind totally. May be I should seek for help. Seeking for help may be the boldest step that I can afford right now. Or may be I’ll just call myself ‘a citizen of the world’ and blame it all on globalization. Oh! That would indeed be a good way to let go -Damn you, Globalization!

Tags: mizo, zo, zomi, zogam

The Zo Fest

The other day, my friends asked me to come along for a fresher meet-cum-cultural day of a certain Zomi Tribe. I hopped along hoping to catch some traditional dance or song that I must admit I was hardly educated on. You can blame my parents only for that but I’m trying to help them unload that unnecessarily heavy accusation. Any way, I think it is pretty alright that the function started with a prayer rather than some traditional recantation; after all, we’re Christian! It was followed by an introduction and induction of the fresher with a prayer. The prayer seems like a thousand year especially since I was eagerly awaiting the special item performance that the ‘scheduled programme’ I hold in my hand informed me.

As soon as the Pastor said ‘Amen’, I stretched out my neck not wanting to miss a single thing from the special performance. Then came a pretty girl up the stage in an itsy-bitsy tiny little dress to whose tribe it traditionally belongs I still cannot figure it out. She was closely followed by a gentleman with a guitar and, instead of thumping their legs as I often see tribal do that when they dance in Discovery channel; they started singing one sweet candy bubbly song.

I never heard of such cool traditional song, it rather sounds to me like some Britney Spears’ if only her voice didn’t shake and for too long as it ached my jaws. My aching jaw and neck quite disappointed me and that is when I take a second look at the programme and realize that this is the first session and all sorts of entertainment are allotted for the second session! Silly me, if only I have had known that I could have had more time to nap!

I was not that very disappointed when my friends woke me up and interrupted my dream when the first session ended since it means I don’t have to wait much longer. I tried to reason the interruption while scrambling out of the auditorium but it rather makes me wonder how these people are going to perform some tribalistic dance while they are fully clothed except for quite a few girls. By the way, I think the Jeans skirt and pants worn by those girls were also quite traditional since they have been around for quite a long time now though I wonder to which tribe I may ascribe them.

Well, when the second session started I have to stretch my neck quite a few times but I don’t want to hold it out for long since it will only ached before the dance performance started. But I stopped stretching after I realize that special item performance only means some sugary bubble-gum song. I wonder why don’t we ever have a specially dedicated dance recital programme as the mainland Indian often did. Well, that may be another thing but it is quite a bore when you heard of so much twaddle and Britney Spears-cum-Lata Mangeshkar sound-alike. I would very much prefer the original but then there is nothing very original about anything.

Then, in a moment of deep meditation my ear pricked as it heard the announcer, or the emcee as they called them, announce something like ‘the moment that we are eagerly waiting for’. I readily applauded to this finality coming as I have been undeservingly tormented for far too long. But I wonder why I allowed myself to be thus tormented and sit here like a putrid mushroom just to see some people pounding their legs and singing some utterly funny song when I can just watch it from the comfort of home in Discovery channel or National Geographic Channel.

But the moment they switched off the light and light the stage, my mind takes an abrupt somersault, my neck stretched, my ears bloomed and my jaw slumped down my chest, all on their own, and my eyes would have popped out if not for my fake Rayban goggle and I could see it. But my ears wilted back quickly as the 100 decibels sound of the emcee’s voice in the sound box jumped 25 rows to bite it off. Then the keyboardist, by mistake, started playing his keyboard instead of some leather bounded drums. I laughed, but nobody laughed, so I stopped, may be it is not a mistake. My mind stopped to marvel at how far this people have come with in such a short time; from the traditional leather bounded drums I often heard my grandpa say they used, to a hi-tech keyboard to accompanied them in their dance. You know, not even the Japanese do that and to think of it, they make the best keyboard!

The somersault restarted the moment the two traditionally clothed hunks pulled the red curtains to make a small opening which I suppose is where the dancer will come out from. Then, poof, pops out the itsy-bitsy tiny-little-dress girl from the morning session in an itsy-bitsy tiny little shining dress. She gauntly walked across the stage stopping for a moment or two to hold her hips and throw her heads around. Just as she was to leave another girl popped out and she would have looked like Jesus had she only had a beard and her robe was not a bit too tight and had her hair were not pulled back and had she had not shown so much cleavage and had she looked a little more like Jesus. She walked across the stage like the girl in an itsy-bitsy tiny little shining dress and the forced fang baring makes them look similar. In fact, the other 8 girls who followed them also looked similar except that they wear some different cloths, even though they hardly clothed them.

The other fact is that, none of them danced like the tribal danced in TV. To me it looks like a fashion show rather than a traditional dance. I wonder how they did it in the old day. Did they really have such thing as the itsy-bitsy tiny little shining dress, or the flowing robe or the polka-dot dress, and did they wear them every time they dance? If so, then it must be very exciting even though I wonder if my sister would really loved to wear that itsy-bitsy tiny little shining dress. As she said it will expose all her fats, I can imagine that.

I was lost in thought so much so that when they switched the light back on, I thought I was time travelling like in some movies. I quickly grabbed the brochure to cover my eyes and try to open my eyes under it. On my third attempt I managed to squint open it a tiny bit and saw something in the programmes list and I realize that I still don’t take a good look at it.

When the girls started walking back to the stage, this time in their traditional dress, I was no longer excited because I know they are not going to dance. I know that because the programme said so and also, it is called beauty contest. It is not funny. They keep walking around and answer some stupid question in such a pious way that would shame even the saints! And worst, they take up a whole lot of time, and they even called this ‘the eagerly awaited moment’!

Don’t these people have something of their identity to showcase? Don’t they have something like love and fraternity to be the main attraction at such once in a year gathering in such a far off place, instead of showcasing some skinny airy headed girls who don’t even stands to the normal height? Don’t they know how to show their traditional dance to waste the more than one hour time that they used to showcase some skinny flesh? Can’t they sing their own song instead of borrowing others’? Don’t they have any self respect? What is so great about a beauty contest? In what criteria are they going to judge beauty, if it can be judged at all? Should beauty be judged by some brownie points gathered from some moralistically pious answers or from showcasing their body?

I know much better. I know my sister is beautiful because she is loving, caring and forgiving even though she is fat. I know my mother is much more beautiful than those girls because she is more patient and with much more practical wisdom even if she is wrinkled.

These people did not fool me. They are fooling themselves. And I’m not happy either, I am going to keep cursing because I was disappointed and because I have to learn my tradition from some television episode that was narrated by some firangs with no knowledge of it at all. And above everything, I have to return home like a fool laughed at by my friends for mistaking a beauty contest for a traditional dance recital. Next time when they have another contest, I’m going to call it an airy head contest done for the pleasure of some leering old men and young men who organised it and I’m not going to attend.

Tags: mizo, zo, zomi, zogam